


Code Purple, 245, 10-43

by Showeranon



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: AU, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Showeranon/pseuds/Showeranon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Atramen Police Department gets briefed on their most recent criminal developments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Code Purple, 245, 10-43

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wrote this as an excuse to write down summaries of the members of the Midnight Crew. It's certainly not my best work, and I may come back to it later to do revisions. As is abundantly clear with the ending, which sucks, in my opinion. But fuck it, I finished writing this at five in the morning.

"Alright boys, shut up and sit down. We've got a fair bit to cover and only so much time to do it." Ugh, briefing. This was Jefferson's least favorite part about being a cop. He loved nothing more than walking his beat, or cruising around with his partner. You know, actually being on the streets and doing the things that people gave a shit about. None of this red tape, none of these formalities. If there's a bad guy, you get the location and you bring him in. Let the trench coats deal with any of the paperwork and interrogations.

Jefferson leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, foot up on the empty seat in front of him, keeping balance. The occasional gust of wind from a nearby fan cooled his bare chest, slightly exposed by the top quarter of his button down being opened. A mat of chest hair was clearly visible and no more appealing now that everyone could examine just how virile Jefferson seemed. There was a golden cross tangled up in that mess. Somewhere. He didn't put too much effort into remembering that it was around his neck most of the time.

"Jefferson!" Chief Weston snapped, "Four on the floor and eyes front." Jefferson let out a silent groan and dropped into an upright position, opening his eyes slowly enough where Weston was clearly able to see that Jefferson was mocking him, but fast enough to keep things curt and professional. But more to the point it prevented Weston from having and justification for calling Jefferson out for insubordination. Chief Weston knew that Jefferson wasn't up for this nonsense; he himself briefly remembering his days on a standard beat. At the very least he knew where the officer was coming from, though the reminiscing seemed to kick him into an even fouler mood than the one he had just handed to all of his officers. Seeing that the briefing room was now as full as it was going to get, Chief Weston cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen, today's briefing is one of particular importance." He began pacing, "It concerns recent criminal developments here in Atramen. Recent criminal developments of which some of you are aware, and some of you are not aware. So far, it's only concerned some of your beats. As such, we didn't think it to be particularly pertinent to inform the entire precinct of the situation at hand." He paused, nodding to an officer at the back of the room. He dimmed the lights and flipped the "On" switch of a slide projector located in the center of the room, amidst the muckle of policemen.

"That is largely because we were not aware that the situation presently on hand actually existed." He retrieved a baton from the ledge of a chalkboard directly behind him and yanked a projector screen down from its housing at the top of the board. The first slide clicked into place. Jefferson immediately recognized the mug shot.

"You are all aware of the infamous Mobster Kingpin. He was taken down five months ago to the day after years of ongoing investigation. Though due to the valiant efforts of an independent detective, the APD was able to move from being a thorn in his side to being a dagger in his throat." Jefferson leaned back again, sliding his eyes shut. Another history lesson. Joy.

"He did it all. Rum running, racketeering, assault, murder, conspiracy to commit every damn thing there's a law against. He was connected to a string of brothels in the city that we're only just beginning to crack down on." Chief Weston paused and turned back at the crowd of officers to which he was presenting, "Point is, after this bastard was taken out, there was a significant power vacuum in the criminal underworld. For the most part, the operations continued to run themselves, from what we're aware, but independently. Far less organized, far less revenue, but no one was complaining because each petty warlord on the streets was no longer under anyone's pudgy thumb." He paused exhaling, "Of course, this simply meant that every petty criminal would try to make a name for themselves. Thankfully, this hasn't caused us too much trouble, personally, as the fighting has been reserved to various gangs and smaller outfits within the city, and they've been too busy dealing with who's out to get each other than to worry about the APD, or really do much that concerns us. Taking out MK brought a weird kind of peace to this place." Jefferson was damn near falling over in his chair when the chief addressed him again.

"Jefferson, you had better get your ass back straight or I'm going to shove my boot so far up there that we'll need an order from the goddamned president himself to get it removed. Do I make myself clear?" Jefferson smirked.

"Do you always have to make everything such a federal fucking issue, sir?" At least he had remembered his honorifics. Jefferson was feeling particularly ancy off his beat today. Weston groaned and pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose.

"As a matter of fact, Jefferson, I do, especially when it comes to these jackasses." He flicked the baton against the screen. The slide shifted to a grainy photo of four men sitting at an outdoor cafe, each a completely different height and build. The only thing similar about each was their style of dress; a predisposition for tailored black suits and serviceable hats. Of course, given the popular attire of the general public, this was instrumental in helping to distinguish them from everyone else. One of the rookie officers at the front of the room was the first to speak.

"Who are these guys, sir? If you don't mind me asking." His voice was timid, yet firm; clearly attempting to feign the confidence required speaking directly to the Chief with only a few weeks of experience under his belt. Chief Weston exhaled deeply.

"These guys, gentlemen, are the Midnight Crew. And until about four and a half months ago, they were no problem to us whatsoever." Chief Weston began pacing again, holding the baton behind him with the same poise that a dressage rider would a riding crop, "They've operated in their own turf for years now, but that's it. They've kept themselves restricted. Very restricted." Jefferson couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the emphasis Weston put on that word, "It's almost as thought they didn't want to expand their turf. I don't know whether or not they kept a tight lid on their operations out of fear or respect to Mobster Kingpin, but since he's been gone these guys have been doing work." The slide changed again, this time to a street map of Atramen.

"See, the Midnight Crew have traditionally operated out of this portion of Duskridge," the Chief noted, circling a modest neighborhood with his baton, "We presume that's where they picked up their crew name. As I said before they'd stayed in Duskridge for years, keeping small, but very tight operations on everything that happened in that area. Since MK's been out of the picture, however, they've expanded their turf from a couple of speakeasies and one casino to all sorts of racketeering, prostitution, smuggling, black market deals, you name it." Weston circled most of the city with his baton, "And they've been operating damn near everywhere. They've been so rampant in where they're moving their business that they've started clashing with the Felt." Everyone in the room tensed up at the mention of the Felt. They were easily the biggest gang in Atramen, and the only reasonable competition to Mobster Kingpin during his heyday. The Chief let out an uneasy chuckle.

"I guess we've got the Felt to thank for letting us sink our teeth into the Midnight Crew as soon as we did. If they hadn't started butting heads so frequently we never would have caught on to their joint until weeks, maybe months from now. Either way, their encounters are getting progressively more violent, on top of all the action that the Midnight Crew's been taking." The slide snapped again, this time to a picture of what appeared to be the remnants of a warehouse fire.

"See, the Felt's got a roster and hierarchy that we're familiar with. We've been keeping tabs on them for a while now, but until a few weeks ago we didn't even know that the Midnight Crew was still a thing. They've been initiating World War II with the Felt and, at the same damn time, capitalizing on nearly every service that MK ran back when he was in power." The Chief paused to light a cigarette and take what seemed to be a long awaited drag, blowing out a hefty ring of smoke, "And then some." The same rookie in the front audibly swallowed and spoke up again.

"Jesus, sir, they must have a small army worth of manpower. How many of these guys are we dealing with? I mean, on top of their kingpins," he motioned to the screen, pointing out a slide that had been there a few minutes ago. The Chief shook his head and gave another uneasy chuckle.

"See, that's the thing that even I don't understand, Houle." He had the projectionist switch back to the slide with the four men at the cafe. Jefferson started examining the screen with his equivalent of paying attention, as if trying to scour the Crew for weaknesses from just an idle glance at a grainy photograph, "They don't have a small army. You see these four guys?" He choked, having taken an ill timed drag on his cigarette, "That's them. That's the Midnight Crew. Just four schmos. The rookie retreated and let his back slide against his chair, his sweat drenched uniform apparently freezing to the touch as he tried to ease himself back into a comfortable position.

There was a silence. Everyone in the room was taking in just how bad these guys appeared to be. Jefferson tried to remember all the gangs that he had tangled with. Any gang worth its salt has thugs, but that's just hired muscle. As far as actual membership in the hierarchy goes, there were usually at least ten members. The Felt had fifteen, not including their mysterious overseas conductor and a lawyer that had defended them so many times that he may as well be a member himself. Jefferson remembered going by his law firm once and passing by his office door. It appeared that someone in City Hall didn't take too kindly to his fervent defense of some of the most notorious criminals in Atramen. They had tried to scrape off the name plaque that adorned his oaken door, leaving only the prefix of "Dr." and what used to resemble a surname. Gang politics had seeped its way into the very legal system of Atramen. Jefferson felt a brief tug of dread in the bottom of his gut. He snapped his attention to the front of the room when the Chief spoke again.

"Now, the entire reason that I called a briefing today is so that you all can have a sense of who we're dealing with here. Though we've only been tailing them for a short time, we've got the best detective in the city on the case, I assure you." Jefferson knew it was none other than the gumshoe that iced Mobster Kingpin. He probably had backup from the other detectives in his office, but there was no doubt that it was this particular sleuth that was on the case. "We've got each member profiled, so we're going to give you guys a bit of a taste before you head back out onto your beats." The slide changed, showing a picture of a small, suit clad man strutting down what appeared to be Main Street, clutching in one hand a cane far too large for his meager stature and an anonymous black briefcase in the other.

"This, boys, is Clubs Deuce. He's about five two, but don't let that get the best of you. This little fucker can bring some pain. He's tenacious, but a bit simple. He's supposed to be a nice guy if you get to know him, but nice guys don't roll with the most dangerous gang in the city. If he goes after someone himself, they're usually found with dozens of blunt force trauma wounds whenever they turn up." The Chief cleared his throat, "He's also a demolitions expert. We think he's ex-military, but he could have picked up bomb making experience doing construction. That's irrelevant. Point is, this little guy," the projectionist switched back to the image of the razed warehouse, "Did that. Explosion killed four warehouse employees and maimed sixteen dockworkers. Given their wide turf and resources, Deuce could probably level the whole damn city if he wanted to." The next slide snapped into position, displaying a tall, brawny customer as wide as a bus.

"This is Hearts Boxcars. He's the muscle of the Midnight Crew. He's nearly seven feet tall and can supposedly tear out a man's arm with his bear hands. I don't doubt the rumors." The Chief paused, looking up to the ceiling, as if trying to escape what he was trying to say, "He's a former heavyweight boxing champ and he got his start in the underworld as a freelance safe cracker. He's also, like the rest of the Crew, a complete psychopath. He was involved in a brawl downtown a few months back where witnesses claim that he actually tore out another man's throat with his teeth." The officers, seasoned though many of them were, visibly cringed in their seats. Chief Weston shook his head in agreement with their sentiment. The slide projector snapped again. Next up was a tall, slender looking fellow. Not nearly as big as Boxcars, and certainly no where near as wide, but still a distinguished, imposing sort of man.

"This is Diamonds Droog. He's their interrogator and marksman. Confirmed for having a military background, he's been torturing people for as long as some of us have been wearing a badge. This scofflaw's a real nutcase." Weston let out what appeared to be a nearly genuine chuckle, "He was dishonorably discharged from special forces for using "excessive and unconstitutional force" in dealing with prisoners. Got his criminal life started doing gun running. Now he rolls with the Crew. Likes to hang out in pool halls." The Chief paused for another drag on his cigarette, "And the most useful bit of info about Droog is that he's frequently sent out on his own. A bit of a lone wolf, so he's probably going to be the easiest to take down because of his natural detachment." Weston shook a disapproving finger at the crowd of policemen, "Don't get cocky, though. He'll take any smart idea of yours and fuck you in the ass with it and won't call you the next morning. Don't underestimate this wacko." The Chief straightened his back as the slide changed to the last image. A man of modest height with sharp facial features and a predatory scowl. His suit, like Jefferson's uniform, was casually open; the top few buttons of his shirt undone. The picture captured him mid stride of a detestable strut.

"This, men, is the big cheese of the Midnight Crew. This is Spades Slick. We don't know nothing about him. No criminal past, no military history, no family or friends save for his gang buddies. Nothing. The only information we've been able to drag up is that this guy has a tendency to stab people when he's angry or bored, and lives up to his moniker.  
Don't let his modest appearance sell you on anything. This guy's a schemer. He plans all the heists, orchestrates all the blackmails and rackets, and runs his crew with an iron fist. Queer thing is, from some of the thugs that we've had close to 'em, they say that he doesn't run the Crew by fear, like most gangs do." The officers exchanged puzzled glances. The Chief nodded in agreement, "Yeah, they respect him. And it seems like it's genuine. We've got no idea how they formed, but Deuce, Boxcars, and Droog are deathly loyal to Slick. But don't think that makes him some kind of blue collar ambassador or something. He's gotten his hands dirty more times than the rest of the Crew combined. Most recently, he beat a man to death in public, in plain view of an orphanage downtown, with a cast iron horse hitcher that was outside of a bar. Witnesses say that he just tore it straight out of the ground and started swinging."

The room was growing restless with anxiety. The briefing was supposed to prepare the officers for their possible encounters with these suddenly notorious gangsters, but from the looks of things, Jefferson ascertained that it had done nothing more than make his fellow officers afraid to step out onto their beats. Every time they looked down a dark alleyway, they'd expect to see four black silhouettes approaching with bombs, fists, guns, and knives to ensure that their family didn't have reason to celebrate Father's Day.

The lights switched back on and the Chief Weston dismissed the precinct. Jefferson stood up and cracked his back. He pulled a lone cigarette from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth, fumbling around for a lighter. As he made his way towards the door, he was stopped by a sudden address.

"Jefferson." The Chief stated, curtly, as the other officers trickled out of the briefing room, "Stay a minute." Jefferson groaned and heaved his shoulders, turning on one heel to face his superior.

"Yessir? What do you need?" He asked, indignant as always. The Chief donned grim facade.

"Are you with me? I need to know that you're taking this shit seriously. You're a slacker, and I can't stand the way that you keep your shirt open like that, but you're still an officer under my jurisdiction. I need to know that I can count on you." Jefferson placed a hand on the Chief's shoulder, trying to be reassuring.

"Don't worry, sir. I ain't just a night owl. I'm a wise bird, too. I think I can handle four freaks with some firepower." The expression on Weston's face did not change. Instead, he simply gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

"I should certainly hope so." Weston concluded, making an exit. Jefferson took a drag from his cigarette. He exhaled, staring at the ceiling.

"How much damage can four guys do anyway..." He muttered to himself, taking his leave of the briefing room. Twilight welcomed the veteran officer as he returned to his squad car. He fiddled with the knobs of his radio as a report came in, gargled in static. Jefferson pulled out from the parking lot of the police station and flipped on his lights.

"Just four guys." He reminded himself, trying to shake his doubts. He'd have to do better than that if he wanted to keep his head above water in this town. He’d have to do much better.


End file.
